Golden Age Poem by Suhel Akram

Epoch of story tellers passed by,
augurs do rest in their graves,
clock doth curse in passing,
the stone age and iron age behind,

where is this place we are,
is this the golden age,
predicted by the augurs,
the epoch in the stories of the tellers,

how can this epoch cognominate gold,
where prevails no mercy,
in the heart of the critters,
for those who stray like the litter.
where the streets permeated with
faces no smiles lit in them,
no hearts beating for the peace,
no eyes looking at the pains
of those down-and-out,
no ears listening to the screams
of critters crying in remorse,
no hands coming forth to embrace
those shivering in isolation.

no its not the golden age,
which even the god is remorseful of,
where the rivers flow with
current of pain, misery and screams,
and oceans filled deep with,
waves of greed, disbelief and melancholy dreams.
board daylight filled with darkness,
air filled with shades of awry witches.

is it what a epoch of gold say,
where justice is spells of riches,
beating is for those versus.
denial and betrayal is fundamental rights,
afflict with the poor is fundamental duty.

wake those story tellers,
wake those augurs up from grave,
ask them to roam around,
is it the golden age?
is it the epoch entitle gold?